


BAKER STREET DEVIATIONS

by skyefullofstars



Series: BAKER STREET DEVIATIONS [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Horror, Implied Character Death, M/M, Self-Sacrifice, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyefullofstars/pseuds/skyefullofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A five part series of angst and horror - for those of you who requested it. Your wish is my command.  NOT part of the THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON trilogy. NOT part of the SHERLOCK and JOHN SECOND HONEYMOON INTERLUDE SERIES.  Here be monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BLAST

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, like everything else I write, THINGS MAY NOT BE QUITE AS THEY SEEM.  
> This is for those many Readers who specifically PM'd me to ask if I had other stories in the works, particularly, and I quote here, Angst. "Horror would be nice, as well." (I'm not even going to comment on that request other than to say, Your Wish is my command. So, Brave Hearts, here it is. Serving number one of angst and horror. Enjoy the wallow. But come back to us when you've had enough. We miss you!)
> 
> For those of you in love with the GRACE / BOYS/ REBELLION universe, you might want to skip this one. Fair warning.
> 
> No apologies whatsoever.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock slumps on the cobbled pavement, his back against the brick wall of the church, his legs stretched out in front of him. He seems to have lost a shoe.

His watch sits on the pavement next to him, its face clearly visible. 2:45 pm. He watches as the digital numbers slowly change. 2:46 pm

One minute past the time that time stopped.

Over his head, the sky is an unusually brilliant blue for England. Nearly cobalt. There is a sweet smell in the air, more of summer than of spring. Opposite him a small grove of oak trees is in full bloom. His mind idly supplies the correct terminology: genus: Quercus, species: robur, at the same time his crystalline eyes note and appreciate the fully blooming limbs. Green. A dark green, particularly vibrant against the deep brown of the wood.

The weight in his arms is negligible now, although a few minutes earlier, it seemed heavier.

He tilts his head back until the dark curls encounter the cool bricks, cool even in the mid-afternoon sun. Bits of the ancient church sign lie in front of him and he can just make out the remaining letters. His mind supplies the missing ones. CHRISTCHURCH. How many such named religious institutions are there in England, he wonders idly? He must look that up some time.

He watches as the numbers click over. 2:47 pm.

He dialed the emergency number four minutes ago, shouted instructions, then threw the useless mobile away from him to clatter against the rough road. He could barely hear the responses over his mobile and only hopes that someone got the call. Give them time to get round the normal traffic and that caused by the explosion, emergency rescue vehicles, fire and local police, bomb units, make it seven – seven and one half minutes then.

Seven and one half minutes. He idly speculates: if it was possible for them to arrive on scene in oh, say, five and one half minutes, it would still be nealry 400 seconds too late.

A small object buzzes not that far away from him, seemingly interested in the brilliant red flowers that bloom unchecked in the churchyard next to him. A hummingbird. He watches as the tiny creature goes about its business of collecting nectar, then zooms off.

A faint breeze sets his dark curls dancing and he momentarily shuts his eyes as the early summer wind blows over his forehead. He's glad it's summer. John likes summer, always has done.

2:48 pm. Three minutes past the time that time stopped.

Sherlock shifts his weight marginally in order to pull the slight body more carefully into his grasp and cradle the dark blonde head against his chest. He deliberately does not look at the twin rivulets of blood that fall down the side of his new husband's face, one from each ear canal.

He thinks he hears the siren now. But not certain. All sound is muffled. Remote. Give them another sixty seconds to make their way round. Maybe they can't . It is highly probable that parts of the structure lie in the street behind them. The explosion was extensive and undoubtedly did a great deal of damage.

Indeed, the bomb did more damage of an irrevocable nature than at any other moment in history.

He wonders if John would find that observation excessively dramatic.

They had been, in fact, just a dozen or so feet away from the epicenter of the blast.

Sherlock holds more tightly to the cooling body and shuts his eyes even as his relentless mind supplies background data.

Sometimes, he hates his mind.

Most times.

The blast, obviously caused by an explosive, caused an instantaneous change in air pressure, which propagated away from the epicenter. The resulting sharp jump in pressure, the shock wave, hit them both, but John was behind him and being John, he threw himself over Sherlock and they both went down, blown off their feet by the blast wave.

Sherlock can tell it was a blast wave because of the displacement of air molecules. He felt them explode and disperse, as if space itself parted and created a path that the two of them tumbled into. But then the path closed and only one of them was able to climb out again.

_The wrong one. Obvious._

Shock waves, Sherlock notes, travel supersonically, faster than the speed of sound. There was no way their human bodies could have recognized the imminent blast and gotten out of the way. A second of understanding. And John Watson threw himself over his new husband's body. And took the brunt of the shockwave.

Sherlock wonders if the action was instinctive or deliberate. And what does it matter?

John has always been one to deliberately place himself in harm's way if by doing so, he could save lives. Or save Sherlock.

" _Ironic that,"_  Sherlock thinks.  _The best sacrificing itself to save the useless._

He imagines the sirens getting closer now, but he cannot actually hear them as there is something wrong with his hearing. Everything is strangely silent, more or less. Muffled as the air seems muffled on a snowy day.

And people, there are other people, not surrounding the two of them but farther off, coming out of the church, those that survived the initial explosion, calling for help over their mobiles, he sees some of them crying as they wander outside, undoubtedly asking over and over again, in querulous voices, what in bloody hell was that!?

Again, his mind provides the most probable scenario as his sense of hearing is no longer a viable method of determining factors.

He opens his eyes momentarily and blinks in order to dispel moisture. It's getting harder for him to see, Sherlock realises. He postulates this is because he has suffered a head injury, one that he cannot, as yet, cognize.

He entertains the notion, no more than an exercise in speculation, really, that it proves fatal – and quite soon. It will be a great time saver. As well as conserve rescue efforts and materials expended on his behalf. Efforts best spent on those who wish to survive.

He refuses, however, to offer up prayer or supplication to the mythical sky being that John so often invoked. He will not waste precious brain resources in such a hopeless fashion.

_Please God, don't let him live._

What type of explosion? Had to be a planted device, bomb, obvious. But he has no way of knowing exactly where it was placed. Not enough data. He heard the slight crackling sound which denotes a close explosion, rather than the booming sound of one far off. Doesn't matter if it gets the job done. You can call it what you will. Fine. So how many kilos of explosive needed to do this type of damage? Perhaps six or so, maybe less. No, six would be incredibly excessive since the explosion was contained within the walls. Four would do it nicely. One might suffice - if the bomber really knew his or her stuff. He assumes a male or male(s) but doesn't have enough data to really tell, now, does he?

And plenty of targets, this one apparently meant to take out the northern end of the church, and kill as many as possible on this Sunday, this day of days for the two of them.

Air molecules dispersing and the blast wave exploding outward a bit faster than the speed of sound, which means the initial wave hit them traveling faster than 1,000 feet per second….one wave and when it encountered a small object, a human body, five feet seven inches tall, weight, approx nine stone, give or take, (John had never fully recovered the weight he'd lost two years earlier), that meant the main forefront of the shock blast hit the slight body going at an approximate speed of 10,000 feet per second – or faster - he would have to adjust for unknown variables.

Sherlock applies his knowledge of explosions and knows that of the two phases, the pressure part and the suction part, it was the pressure that hit them – and effectively brought time to a screeching halt. The surrounding air does not have time to get out of the way, and something like a solid wall of high pressure is formed.

John never had a chance.

He remembers his first physics professor, quoting Joseph Needham's humorous definition of an explosion, "An explosion may be defined as a loud noise accompanied by the sudden going away of things from the places where they were before."

Truth in humor, than, as John has most definitely gone away from the place he was before.

Sherlock wonders where. And is it possible for him to follow? And how quickly?

John promised Sherlock – promised him – that he would not go where the detective cannot follow.

 _John lied,_  Sherlock muses. Lied about the most fundamental and important thing of his life, both their lives. Sherlock wonders now if John lied about other things or just this one thing, the overall important thing of all time.

There was never any question of rescue breathing. The blood on John's chest told him that, deep red, copious amounts of it and everywhere it shouldn't be. Not caused by the blast but by splinters of the church as it hit them both, by rock and brick, stone and wood.

His new husband's sweet face, gone still, just the one tiny bruise over his left eyebrow – and the wound in his chest. Over the place where Sherlock's heart used to reside.

Somehow this single anomalous event managed to rip open John's chest and tear all his promises away.

Then there's the bruise over the eyebrow, under the skin, over the skull which shelters the left frontal lobe, Sherlock notes, hating his brain as it supplies the probable results of such a blast hitting a fragile human skull at such a velocity and speed.

Death – near instantaneous.

Near.

John had shuddered once, and he had muttered one word, his husband's first name, in a tiny whisper, more of a susurrus of sound than of an actual word. Sherlock barely heard it. Then he had abandoned the small body, and gone elsewhere. And Sherlock gathered the limp form up in his embrace and held it close as he sat, legs splayed, leaning against the red brick.

He doesn't even remember how they got out here. The last cognizant memory he has is of the both of them standing together, hands joined, grinning at each other like idiots.

There are other bricks there, ripped loose from the superstructure of the aged church. Sherlock idly counts them and speculates that when the count hits 243, the ambulance will at last be there.

And they will take John away from him.

So he sits and watches the watch. 2:50 pm. Five minutes past the time that time ceased to matter.

He thinks he hears the slightest of sounds, a siren? Close and getting closer? Or just the wind in the oaks? Sherlock observes as the numbers switch over to 2:51.

Give them another 30 seconds to maneuver and park. No, let's be fair. 45 seconds then. Open the doors, jump out and open the back. Pull out their kits and yes, a gurney, because there's no way that they could know, yet, of the utter uselessness of such an item now.

One full minute then to hold his love to himself. Sixty seconds of feeling the slight weight in his arms, the smooth surface of the dark blue morning coat, gone all sticky now, the brush of the silken hair against his wrist, the one that aches so abominably. The sweet face, gone still, quiet.

_Wake up John. You are missing one hell of an interesting crime scene._

Sherlock sees the ambulance pull up, the doors open. He leans his head back against the ruined red brick of the church and feels the twinge of pain in his wrist and the spreading aches all over his body. He wonders why he cannot feel his legs or feet. They seem to be there, in front of him, but he has no feeling in them whatsoever. None.

He opens his eyes as the watch John gave him relentlessly counts down time.

In a few seconds, they will rush them both, and demand to ascertain his own bruising and obvious – and not so obvious – injuries. He will dismiss those demands, however, as his own continued existence is no longer of any importance.

They will, of course, miss the worst injury he has suffered because despite his desperate willingness to follow John, his stubborn heart continues to beat. His heart, fit now only as an internal organ whose sole purpose has been relegated to circulating blood and perpetuating an existence that ceased to have meaning a scant seven minutes earlier.

John apparently took his other heart, the one that John so loved, with him when he went away from this place.

Odd that, him having two hearts, if only for a little while. Like that traveling doctor in that show on telly that John so enjoys.

Sherlock's head begins to ache abominably. He shifts his hold on the small body, encircling it within his shaking arms, and grasps more tightly of the fabric, or what is left of it. The white shirt – white no longer – hangs in tatters under his fingers.

He deliberately ignores his own growing maelstrom of pain and the warm stickiness that drips down the side of his face. Both eardrums have been ruptured - obvious - as he cannot hear any sounds now at all, despite the fact he can actually see the rescue crews racing toward them.

Everything hurts now. Everything. Except his legs and feet.

His own physical condition he relegates to the recycle bin that holds the unimportant facts and useless data soon to be deleted.

None of it matters anyway.

It is, after all, only transport.

**OoOooO**

 


	2. COLD

 

**OooOooO**

"Sherlock, come on!"

John continues to pump on the too thin chest, his arms locked, ramrod straight, and his palms on top of each other, fingers interlaced, as they pound against the marble skin. Sweat pours down his forehead and drips into his eyes. Once, twice, he shakes his head to dislodge the salt drops before they can sting his retinas again.

But he never stops the chest compressions.

His arms ache. Every thirty seconds, he stops to give the rescue breaths. When he began rescue breathing, air in his lungs was just that – air. It has since become imbued with Purpose. Desperation.

Fear.

"Two minutes," he thinks. No reason for worry yet. Early days. Just keep it up….

_Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty. Breathe for him._

John's sturdy hands tilt the skull back, his fingers grip the dark curls, his right forefinger and thumb clamp off the nostrils, his left hand under the chin to tilt the head back. Open the airway now, BREATHE, and John blows one … two… three measured breathes into Sherlock's lungs.

He watches the thinly muscled chest rise, then fall as his own oxygen fills the detective's lungs.

Nothing.

He gently lets Sherlock's dark head return to its normal position and then starts chest compressions again.

John's mind counts as his arms piston…and the fear…No. Nope. No time for that. Help is coming. Already on its way. He just has to keep on until they get here.

"We've been here, before, you utter bastard," he whispers.

But he lies.

Sherlock has never lain this still before, nor has his heart ever stuttered as it does now, nearly ready to give up on the constant beat, so close to abandoning its job of circulating blood and oxygen and  _John_  throughout the lanky body.

A few minutes earlier, John pressed the three numbers, then hurriedly laid the mobile close by on the near freezing concrete floor. He shouted answers to their questions as his sturdy arms began their rhythm … pound, pound, pound.

_Location. Address. Age and gender of patient. Symptoms. What happened? Can he feel the pulse at the base of the throat? Does he know rescue breathing?_

"I'm a fucking doctor for Christ's sake!" he shouts at the bloody phone.

He answers until they assure him help is on the way. From time to time, he hears an emergency operator talk to him, as if by keeping up a running commentary, she can walk John through this.

John nearly laughs. He has spent the last two years of his life with a bloody genius madman who can keep up a more or less constant running commentary at crime scenes, in taxi cabs, at parties, on the dance floor, in their own bedroom. Talk, Talk, Talking the world into shape, until John has told him to shut the hell up, you wanker - I need to sleep even if you don't!

He allows himself one glance at his watch, just to be certain. Yup. Passed two minutes, forty-five and coming up on three minutes.

Then he's there. Three minutes. And they round the turn. Into the home stretch.

"Sherlock, come on. Don't  _do_  this!"

A steady stream of sweat pours from John's forehead, stings his eyes, drips down his face, onto his hands, dropping onto the still chest, with its dark blue shirt ripped open to reveal the marble skin, gone red now with the repeated thrusts from John's sturdy arms. Once, just once, his hand slips and he feels  _something_  give - and crack – under his palms

It doesn't stop him.

" _We can fix a cracked rib, Sherlock,"_ he thinks. Later for that. Just keep on. Don't stop. He wouldn't stop on  _you,_ Watson.

"Breathe, you utter sod,"John exhorts, even as his trained medical mind runs through the symptoms of clinical death. Consciousness lost within several seconds…measurable brain activity stops within – No. And then ischemic injury … Stop it. Don't go there. Sherlock would not want to live like that. But he won't have to.  _Just keep at it, Watson._

_But it's early, still. We haven't hit five minutes yet._

Where in bloody HELL are the medics!

_People have come back from as much as thirty minutes clinically dead,_ his mind tells him.

_But that was after drowning in freezing water, Johnny boy._  Not after dying from a deliberate drug overdose on the frigid floor of a fucking warehouse. It's cold here, yes, freezing even, but the sun shines right outside.

_Sherlock!_

Over his head, the glaring light from the fluorescents paints the scene in ghostly hues of bluish white. John thinks it's a horrid thing … fluorescent lighting.

Sherlock's normally pale visage glows bluish in the bad light.

John notes the other worldly paleness of his partner, even as his arms and hands and fingers and the muscles in his chest and shoulders keep up their relentless pounding … even as his brain threatens to go off line.

_What was in the sodding bag?_

He had assumed heroin or even cocaine, but for the detective's reactions. Lethargic, eyes rolling back in his head. Once, twice, Sherlock, even while unconscious, turned his head as his stomach spasmed and attempted to rid itself of whatever was flowing into his veins from the tubing.

John feared the detective would choke to death before he could reach him.

And John can smell something metallic in the air, can taste something – bitter - when he breathes into the soft lips gone slack. At the acrid taste, he nearly gags.

John doesn't allow himself to look to the side, to the gurney where Sherlock was strapped down just moments earlier. He deliberately doesn't look at the long tubing which snakes from the bulbous bag of fluid and winds its way downward, looping lazily through the air from the stanchion, before finally ending in the horrid needle that was stuck in his friend's forearm.

How much poison and what type had dripped into the pale arm before John managed to free himself of his restraints?

After nearly screaming himself hoarse, John had finally managed to tilt his chair over, hearing bits of the rungs break. Several determined rolls of his compact body back and forth, with every muscle in his shoulders, back and legs getting into the act and then – finally - the back of the chair give way. A few more determined kicks and he was free of the bloody chair.

And all the while he was cursing sheer murder at the bastards who did this, and screaming at Sherlock over and over and over again, " _Hold on, you son of a bitch! Just hold on … I'm coming…I'm right over here, Sherlock! For fucks, sake, come ON!"_

And then finally, finally, feeling the slight give in the rope. Nirvana. If they'd use zip ties, he might not have been able to free himself. Thank god for unimaginative criminals. Good old nylon rope, which will eventually give, if you keep struggling and yanking and pulling AND are willing to bend and break your own damn thumb in order to free yourself.

John was willing.

He ignores the disjointed, hideously swollen thumb, although his mind is going white with the pain, and keeps up the chest compressions. Now he's past the three minute mark and he can't help himself, he glances at his watch, then all of his attention is back on the silent bastard who lies in front of him on the cold warehouse floor, his body getting colder by the second, and where in bloody hell is the ambulance and the medics? Where is Lestrade?

He feels Sherlock's flat stomach spasm once, twice under his hands. The other man's pulse is weak and getting weaker. Nearly non-existent. The crystalline eyes have rolled back in his head. John's medical mind notices these relentless signs, even as his body and soul refuses to give up.

Then Sherlock convulses and his head tips back on the dark curls and his body spasms and John sobs.

"No, love, don't  _do_  this to me. To us. Don't go where I can't follow!"

And he stops the chest compressions and John's belt is out of the loops of his jeans and the leather pressed between Sherlock's teeth before he even notes what he is doing. He's performing battlefield medicine on the other man, his actions practiced, automatic.

Sherlock's not breathing now. And John can see the faint tips of his fingers and nails, gone bluish.

He goes back to chest compressions even as he hears, or thinks he hears, the sound of the approaching ambulance.

Did the bastards lock all the outer doors or leave them open in their rush to get away and leave them there – Sherlock to die and John to watch him die? Left  _him_ alive because he, John Watson, wasn't important enough to kill.

Give the medics a minute to rush the doors, to force the locks, and Yes! John hears the second siren now and this sound is different, higher. The scream of police cars. Lestrade's bunch has finally arrived, then.

_Close. So close._

He stops compressions to give the three breaths and his desperation pumps oxygen into the idle lungs, nearly shuttered now. Then back to chest compressions and he doesn't allow himself to even stop and think how long it's been.

_What did the bastards put in the bag?_

He's a doctor and he puts all the symptoms together in three seconds – thready pulse, nearly gone; shallow breaths that have now – apparently - stopped. Pupils ... mere pinpricks in the truly terrible lighting. Metallic smell and bitter taste in his mouth during the rescue breaths. Abdominal spasms and the faint, sickly green hue which has replaced the ghostly blue. Heartbeat fading …. Fading …. fading…

Morphine. A deliberate, killing dose.

The fucking bastards hooked him up to a morphine drip – and left him. And grinned at each other while they did it.

John's mind supplies antidotes, probable treatment if the Medics. Will. Just. Fucking. Hurry.

_Discontinue rescue breathing and bag him as the medics can do a better job then he can. IV fluids and, of course, activated charcoal. Naloxone. Multiple doses. Yes. That will work. Just. Hurry._

John sobs out the prayer even as he exhorts the detective to stop this _. Just Stop It Right Now_.

_Please God, let him live._

John's tawny hair sticks to his scalp with sweat and he ignores the growing pain in his thumb and the ache in his shoulders and hands and knees where he straddles the detective on the unforgiving cement.

Nearly four minutes now and he can hear the pounding as someone attempts to break open the damned doors. He fervently hopes for paramedics first and Lestrade's people second.

His mind plays back the last few hours and he's horrified – horrified – that so much can go so wrong so quickly.

_Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty…Breathe for him._

Three street dealers taken down in five days. Three. And Sherlock had suspected all were part of the same cabal. And then the phone call. One to John's mobile and how in hell they'd got hold of his number is beyond him. And one to the Yard. Straight through to Lestrade's office. Same deadly cold voice each time. Same exhortation.

"Tell your boy, Holmes, he's next. Fair warning." And the line gone dead. Unknown number; impossible to trace.

But then - nothing. No more threats and Lestrade had purposefully told them, "No cases, guys, not for a few days. Let it rest. Let the Yard take care of this." And Lestrade had gone to work attempting to trace the calls. And track down the local drug lord. No joy.

Sherlock had scoffed. Obvious the dealers were all working for the same –

Sherlock's body convulses again, slight, but John notes it and stops the compressions for a second, while the detective rides out the faint spasm. Then his arms lock and he goes back to his task.

John's mind continues to replay events. No cases for four days. And the detective has that look in his eyes. The look which tells John the amazing brain is going to derail unless something happens and soon.

"Find me something, John. Find us something. A case. A distraction. Something."

And John had immediately noted it had been a while since they'd simply walked the city, visited their favorite park and bench and maybe it was time to look in on Sherlock's homeless network and why not take the respite as it is offered and just drift for one day, visit the British Museum as the detective had yet to see the new Egyptian mummy exhibit and Sherlock had grinned and said, " _Of course._   _Of course. Perfect, John_."

And he had been the one to suggest lunch afterward at the little French café that John likes so much. Sherlock would eat between cases, John knew. So they had walked and viewed, sat and talked. And lunched together and his mad love had even eaten off John's plate. And John had let him.

And then the taxi through the city, and while they were on their way back to Baker Street, the text – ostensibly – from Lestrade.

**Suspect cornered. Warehouse district.**

**May be our man.**

**Will you come and ID?**

**GL**

And of course, they had gone. It wasn't that far from where they were, nearly on the way home, it turned out. They'd dismissed the cab driver once they saw the black and white. And John had pulled his gun and kept it in his right hand as they entered the abandoned warehouse.

But John frowned when they walked through the open warehouse doors, as it was just too damned quiet. They'd glanced at each other, then gone straight to the little interior office and he had turned to say something to Sherlock and Sherlock had nodded, distracted, and then the door had slammed behind them and John had cursed himself and they both heard the faintest of sounds. A small whoosh of air.

And then they'd smelled the gas. And they knew.  _He knew._

But too late because they were both falling, toppling onto the cold concrete floor.

And then nothing.

Until John awoke, still groggy from the gas, nauseated, with a stupendous headache, tied to the bloody chair and he had opened aching eyes to the horror of an unconscious Sherlock strapped to the metal table. A moment and he realized it wasn't a table, but a gurney, raised to its full height. And this is a medical warehouse after all. So no problems finding what they needed, including the stanchion and the tubing and Christ but Sherlock was still out from the gas. Even then, they had taken no chances and had restrained the lanky body with multiple nylon straps around chest, waist, and ankles.

John had screamed at them, shouting epithets, screaming every bloody curse word he had ever learned through two consecutive tours as a field medic.

The two of them had ignored his screams, all the while they went about the task of hanging the bag of fluid, sliding the needle under the pale arm. And tweaking the connections on the tubing.

Then one last glance at John. And the first man walked away without a backward glance.

The second one stayed behind for a few seconds and John had memorized his face and could pick him out of a crowd of thousands …light brown hair, slight tan, cold grey eyes, charcoal gray trousers and plain white shirt. His haircut and stance screamed military. He'd glanced once at Sherlock, then looked directly at John and shook his head. His North Country accent tossing out the only two sentences either one of them had uttered: "Paybacks are hell, Watson. Enjoy the show."

And then they had left them there in the small office. Closed the door. And simply walked away.

And John had sat for five fucking seconds, stunned that they had left him his mobile – and his gun. He could see them both lying on the desk, a few feet to his right. His eyes widened at the sight.

And then he had screamed and shouted and struggled with his bonds, yanking for all he was worth against the stupid chair and the stupid ropes that bound his wrists and ankles … and all the while, he fucking screamed at the detective to "Wake the fuck up, Sherlock!" and "Open your damn eyes, you bloody wanker!" And finally "Fight, you sick son of a bitch, fight! Get that bloody needle out of your arm! Sherlock!"

Over and over and over again.

But Sherlock had never regained consciousness and if he heard John, he had not acknowledged by even the merest of movements his partner's voice. Or frantic screams.

And then John had finally, finally bent and broken his own left thumb, enabling him to at last slip out of the bonds, then free his legs from the shattered remains of the chair. He rushed to the other man and pulled his body onto the cold concrete to begin rescue efforts. After first sliding the damned needle out of the crook of the detective's arm.

And that was over four minutes ago and now John hears the medics – or the police – pounding at the steel warehouse door. Locked and bolted he guessed from the inside. And if so, how did the two sobs get out? Later for that.

They should be in and through in a minute.

John doubles up his fist and slams it into the white skin directly over Sherlock's heart – John's heart. The detective doesn't move. Doesn't breath. His heart in full cardiac arrest now.

And John sees the pale visage as it seems to glow a sickly green in the overhead lights.

"Kryptonite green," John thinks, and nearly giggles from sheer disbelief and horror as he continues to pound on the broken ribs, over the place where Sherlock promised to keep his heart safe for John.

Yet another lie from this infuriating man.

And then they have broken through the outer door and they barrel in and shove John aside and they have the defib paddles. A whining sound and John knows the odds now. He's a combat medic and he knows the frigging odds.

The shout of "Clear," and they hit the pale body with the paddles. Once. Nothing. But Sherlock's body arcs slightly with the shock.

Then the whine again and once more. And once more - Nothing. And with the second attempt, Sherlock's body doesn't even convulse at the flow of electricity.

And John moves farther back in the shadows as they work. Away from the medics, even as he shouts out answers to their questions, his mind, working on automatic, supplies the answers to their relentless questions.  _What was in the bag? How long has it been? What in bloody hell is going on here?_ Name, age, what other health problems? Christ, what other health problems? He – nearly – laughs.

And he hears Lestrade's people now, as they pound down the stairs. Obvious, they came in from the other entrance.

And over and above it all, he never takes his eyes off Sherlock's face.

Gone still. Completely utterly still. Vacant. It's former tenant engaged - elsewhere.

And John knows that even if they can bring his love's body back to him, the incredible brain, the beautiful brain is already dead. And Sherlock would never, ever wish to live like that.

John watches the medics in their frantic movements and has the tiny epiphany that it's far, far too late … for both of them. But he wasn't enough of a threat to them to kill. Or ordered killed.

And now he knows why they left him his gun.

_Quickly now, before Lestrade's men reach them._

His hand reaches out.

**OoOooO**


	3. FAIL

**OooOooO**

Gregory Lestrade is a man who has always appreciated his options.

Even when he runs out of them.

He checks his watch for the umpteenth time, nods at the time, 2:45 pm. He hears the crunch of tires on gravel before he actually sees the car. From where he stands, hands in the pockets of his ancient trench, he watches as it rounds the corner and slows, then eventually comes to a stop at least a hundred yards from the entrance to the abandoned warehouse.

Three hundred feet from his worn leather brogues.

He stares at the vehicle and finds it only moderately disturbing that he cannot clearly see the driver. Just another grey blur, one of too many, part and parcel of this miserable bitch of a day. He squints slightly, as the weak sunlight glances off the grill of the car, momentarily blinding him. Then the clouds reassert their authority and the thin winter light becomes a dull uniform grey once more. The car comes into better focus.

Grey. Perhaps, a dull worn silver? Nondescript. Honda? He can't tell yet, but thinks it must be. An older model, but kept in decent running order. He can tell from the quiet purr of the motor. The type of car no one would look at twice.

Like him. The type of old school Detective Inspector that no one would consider twice.

They might just be wrong in that.

He turns his wrist ever so slightly, a barely discernible action, entirely invisible from the advantage point of whoever sits in the fucking car. He glances down at his watch as the minute hand slides forward.

2:46 pm.

No one gets out of the car. Whoever sits behind the driver – and Lestrade can just make out the shadowy blur of a second figure – fully intends to drag this thing out.

They said 3:00 pm and obviously they meant three  _fucking_  P M.

The bastards.

_So …. Fourteen minutes left to contemplate – what?_

What do people think about when they are about to die? Or is there normally any time for thought? Fourteen minutes …. a bit over 3,000 seconds… " _Not much time at all if you look at it that way,"_  Lestrade muses, " _Counted out in seconds,"_  and " _I've already used up ten of them."_

He allows himself to think of his daughters for exactly sixty more seconds. His daughters … who will be safe now because of his actions. Oh, not just his actions here, today. Safe because he is still a damned good cop, albeit an unlucky one. He got the threat loud and clear as it was uttered just twenty-nine hours earlier. And took immediate steps to get them both out of the way and quickly. They were rushed to safety before his little family registered as a permanent target on these bastards' radar.

He's damn certain that his wife, Laura, would appreciate that. If the dead can appreciate anything.

" _Guess I'm about to find out,"_  he considers. And wonders why he can't be content in the knowledge that all he holds dear in this weary world has been transported out of reach. Safe. Secure.

And God bless his friend Roderick – former MI6 – ostensibly retired; now living in America. He doubts very much if these sobs will bother trying to track down his little girls. It'd be a shocking waste of time and resources, and all for what? To take petty revenge on two innocent British girls? With no one left alive to appreciate the irrevocable, final act?

His stomach clenches at the thought of Chrissie's sweet face and Cassie's tumbled curls. He kissed them goodbye yesterday afternoon, knowing it was for the last time. Neither one of them noticed his preoccupied mood. Well, of course they didn't. They're little girls. All they could do was chatter incessantly about their surprise trip. First time on a plane, alone together, with their dear neighbor, a woman they have known their entire lives, but without their old Dad. First time visiting America. First time in an RV, traveling on the open road, camping out with friends.

So many firsts for his girls.

And for Greg Lestrade? The last time he would ever look in those sweet faces again. He kissed each of his daughters. Chrissie first, then her sister. Kissed them in the same way their mother had always kissed them good night or goodbye. Once on her forehead and twice on her closed eyelids, sweet shells that covered those amazing green eyes. So like their Mum's brilliant green eyes.

Then the same quick kisses, forehead, both eyelids, for Cassie, his first born. One last look into the shining dark eyes. " _His eyes,"_  he thought. Everyone tells him Cassie has his eyes.

Then a near bone-crushing hug for each of them. One more for good luck ("Daddy, you're smothering me!") and a gruff "Off you go then," from their Dad.

He watched as the plane mounted the sky, bound for Atlanta, Georgia in the states. Watched it through eyes so swollen with tears he could barely discern the outline of the white wings against the unusually blue sky. Watched it until there was nothing left to watch.

Then made his lone way home and took other steps, all the while waiting hours for that one phone call. When it finally came, he sighed. Safe. Landed in the States and safe. Then the excited calls from the girls. "We're in America, Daddy!" Not to his mobile or to the office landline, too dangerous - but to his neighbor's phone. He has the key and sits at her kitchen table, phone in hand, waiting for the calls to come at the agreed-to time.

And then this very morning, "On the plane for Denver. Will call when we get there." And at last, the third call "All arrived safe. All is well."

With that call, so innocent-sounding and so irrevocable, Greg Lestrade begins to breathe again.

And to grieve.

Because the plan is that his friend – yes, he, Greg Lestrade, soon to be late Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard - still has friends. Important ones. Ones with certain  _talents and_   _abilities._ And his friend and his wife have agreed to take the girls for the summer.

And what if the murdering bastards do go looking?

They'll find – nothing. A trail already gone cold. A nondescript family, like any other American family, like thousands, apparently, on the open road this long weekend and the next entire month, committed to exploring the length and breadth of that huge country in what Greg is told is an RV … Recreational Vehicle … "Yellowstone first, Greg old boy," and then, "Who knows? Footloose, that'll be us Greg."

And…"We'll be in touch. No worries. They're safe as houses." And he knew –  _he knew_  – he had chosen wisely because his friend and his wife had long wanted children, adored kids, but were never able to conceive. They were more than delighted to do this last minute favor for the D.I. They were both as happy to extend the invitation to his girls as his girls were ecstatic to accept.

His little ones would be in good hands. And when the news came that he –  _well_. His girls were in most excellent hands. That was what was important. And if his friend, given the events about to occur, later pieced it all together? So what? The man's an expert, with far-reaching contacts in the world of shared international secrets. He knows how to take care of his own. Yes, his girls will be just fine. Once they get over the initial shock.

And Greg's feelings? Irrelevant.

As Greg thanked Roderick, preparatory to hanging up, he did not intimate by so much as a word to this former Army buddy, this MI6 agent, that they would never "be in touch again." Not in this life.

He had been assured that his death would be quick, provided he did his part. He had been assured that his little family was safe. They had, he was assured, zero interest in his children. They only wanted him, DI Gregory Lestrade. To use as an example.

_Back off or this will happen to you, too._

Tons of assurances.

But Greg Lestrade, ever a man to appreciate his options, did not take them at their word. He went straight home from that devastating phone call - and how the hell it ever got past the main switchboard at the Yard to his desk line is beyond him - and told the girls to "Pack a bag. Cause I've got a treat for you, you little bugs."

His ' _little bugs'_  – Cassie, who so loves to run and jump all over the play park, hopping on one foot in the rubber sand, leaping from one climbing toy to the next, like a ruddy little grasshopper. And Chrissie, who favors pinks and yellows and bright greens and runs, no, flits through the grass, chasing bubbles, tumbling after their English bulldog pup, Watson, reminding him for all the world of a butterfly. His little butterfly.

His little bugs. Safe now. He fervently hopes. He prays to an almighty God he's been out of touch with for so very long. Prays that he's done all he can to ensure the safety of his and Laura's children. He resolutely pushes the images of their sweet faces out of his mind. Later for that. Three minutes from now, he'll think about them. Not now.

 _Watson._  For some reason the image of the tiny bulldog pup flashes into his consciousness. Just for a second. But his dear, long-suffering neighbor will take care of the dog when she returns. After all, she loves him nearly as much as his daughters do. He's left her a note. She has the keys to their flat. And he put the small pup out in the fenced-in yard with plenty of food and water. He should be fine until she returns home.

She'll get the news of his death or see it on telly. And be certain to take in the little dog.

Then why the slight worry?  _Watson._  He rolls the pup's name around on his tongue and wonders why it makes him frown.  _Something about … what? What is it? What's bothering him?_

Lestrade shakes his head to clear it, glances surreptitiously at his watch again. The two figures in the car never move.

They fully intend on dragging this out, then. He wonders what would happen if he simply began to walk toward the car. How far would he make it before -?

_Well, to bloody hell with that. He has a few minutes. He'll make the best of them._

For twenty more precious seconds, Greg Lestrade lets himself go over the plans he's made. He arranged for the girls' school records and birth records to be sent along with them. And, yes, all available funds, to be transferred to certain accounts to help his friend and his wife with the girls' education, clothing, housing. All to occur after his death. His solicitor will see to that.

He reviews his actions and nods quietly to himself. All done. All neat and clean and tidy, as much as he can make it with what time he has been given. No loose ends.

Save one. And he's about to take care of that one right now.

He follows his actions up to and including the very last one this afternoon, just a scant hour ago, one minute after sliding behind the wheel of his car and fastening his seat belt, before driving to this godforsaken location. He pulled out his mobile, then kissed the girls' picture goodbye, before deleting it forever from his phone. The last thing he deletes is the single digital photo of Laura's headstone. No filthy buggers are going to paw through his photos of his precious girls.

Yes. He's covered all the bases.

_Two minutes._

Lestrade wonders idly who they'll get to replace him. Donovan? She's good. Always has been. Donovan would be his first choice.

There's always Dimmock, of course. They might just offer him a transfer. Good man. Tad plodding, but good. Dimmock has done some good things. He'll go far. If he can cultivate a bit of an imagination. At least Dimmock is able to work with – _with who_? Who was he about to name?

Greg frowns again. His head hurts, just a bit. He lets the fleeting ghost of a memory go. But he is more than certain it involves someone tall with a sharp profile and even sharper wit, and dark, near black curls.  _What the hell?_

_Well, let it go then._

But Donovan is his first choice and he leaves a "good memo" in her file, to be found after his death. Just a casual notation of the excellent work she has done and his recommendation that she be promoted at the first opportunity. Pity she won't be able to work with –  _who again?_

_God, his head is beginning to pound._

Once, just once this morning, as he dresses, he briefly considers updating his will. But everything goes to the girls anyway, and that's all taken care of. In the end, he lets it be. Not good to leave too many clues behind. Everything has to look sudden. Unplanned.

The situation arose. He dealt with it to the best of his ability, and …. Well, that's it. That's all she wrote.

_Good night Vienna._

He frowns at the phrase, one he never uses. And wonders again about the silly pup, Watson. What in bloody hell is wrong with him?

_One minute._

Lestrade takes a breath and glances upward, rocking back on his heels, his hands still in the pocket of his trench. The rain will start soon. Indeed, a few drops have already hit his face. He drops his gaze to take in the grey parking lot, the grey crushed stone, the grey car.

Horrid color – grey.  _Is_  it really a color? Molly told him once his grey hair was "Distinguished. Sexy, even." He looked in the mirror and failed to see the attraction.

He smiles briefly at the thought of Molly Hooper and a flicker of regret, just a tiny one, crosses his mind.

" _Shoulda' done something about that when you had the chance, boyo_."

Far too late now, though.

 _Goodbye, dear Molly, of the long brown hair and vague sweet smile. You can do better. There's better out there for you, m'dear. I can just about promise you_.

Thirty seconds. He shuts his eyes briefly, then takes a breath and reopens them.

And watches as the driver gets out of the car, takes two steps back, then opens the rear door.

The passenger in the back seat still doesn't make any move to exit the car.

" _Right. Here we go then."_

Greg Lestrade begins to walk with purpose toward the car. The driver holds up his hand and Greg stops, the implication clear.

The driver nods, slams his door shut and walks slowly toward him.

Greg frowns. He needs to get closer. Accordingly, he begins to walk again until the driver actually shouts out, "Oi! Right there. No closer."

"Right."

Greg stops, his hands still in the pocket of his coat. He calculates the distance between himself and the car that holds his assassin. Funny that. Him, Greg Lestrade, being important enough to warrant an actual assassin.

He wonders if the man will even get out of the car or if their intent is to –

As if on cue, the figure in the back seat swings long legs out and finally emerges from the Honda. He stands. Greg is still more than a dozen yards away, thirty, maybe thirty-five feet. The driver continues to walk toward him but he's stepped to the side as he walks.

Of course. To give the man behind a clear shot. Lestrade can see the standing man's right arm where it hangs down by his side. His right hand holds  _something._

Greg fingers his mobile in his pocket and tilts his head slightly to one side. He can just make out the man's hand and the faint shadow that appears to extend from it.

Not long enough to be a rifle then. So, a gun. He wonders what kind. Does his killer favor the Walther PPK as Greg has done for so many years? Or one of the fancier weapons? He will not be able to tell for certain until the man raises his hand. No need for a silencer. Not out here.

As the driver walks up to him, and gestures with his own gun, Greg reluctantly pulls his hands out of his pockets, then raises them to hold them up and away from his body.

He deliberately takes a breath to loosen his muscles, relax his body language. He ever so slightly slouches his shoulders – deliberate - all done to send a signal.  _I pose no threat to you. All is well._

It is Greg Lestrade's last, carefully cultivated lie. The very last lie he will ever tell in his life.

" _Let's make it a good one, then."_

His mobile phone is in his left hand, clearly visible to the driver, who is now a scant four feet away. The man gestures and Greg opens his hand to drop the mobile onto the hard ground. The slightest of diversions, but that's all Greg needs.

Greg stares into the hard eyes of the other man, this member of the drug cartel he and his people have been pursuing. The relentless pressure, the arrests, the constant surveillance of their comings and goings – all of it culminated in  _the_  phone call just a few hours earlier – yesterday morning, in fact.

"Lestrade?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"Unimportant. Just listen. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way is this: You listen to what I have to say. You tell no one – and we mean no one – the details of this call. We meet up at a location that has just been texted to your mobile. Time is tomorrow, 3:00 pm. Again, you tell no one. You do not arrange to be followed. And make no mistake about it, you will not return from this meeting alive, Detective Inspector. But follow these instructions and your little family remains safe."

Lestrade's eyes open wide and he begins to curse. Then shuts up as the voice – cold, reptilian – continues.

"Yes, we know where the girls are and what school they attend. I repeat - they'll be safe. Make any arrangements you have to make to put your affairs in order. And don't mention this call. We'll know the instant you tell anyone. Donovan, Rodriguez. Anyone. You talk and those sweet little girls will be shot on sight. Pity, that. The youngest favors her Mum, I hear."

"What in bloody hell!"

"Twenty-nine hours, Lestrade. Countdown starts now. That's the easy way."

Greg's mouth was instantly dry and his heart hammered in his chest. He gripped the plastic housing of the landline with a palm gone slippery with sweat.

_Dear God – Cassie - Chrissie._

Somehow he found his voice.

"And the hard way?"

"Easy. You tell anyone – you mention this call to  _anyone –_  and the girls don't make it home alive. Up to you, Lestrade. But I know which option I'd choose."

And the phone went dead in his hand.

Greg stared at the beige phone, unbelieving. He replaced it carefully in its receiver and turned to the window to look out at his city.

His mind raced over plans, made permutations. Came to a conclusion. All in three minutes flat. He nodded. And left work to pick up the girls. And beg the use of his neighbor's landline.

One phone call later and it was all set. The girls would go to his former Army pal in America. The man was MI6. Early retirement in the States. And sometime back, both he and his wife had issued a long-standing invitation to the Lestrades to visit them in Colorado.

Greg gratefully appreciates his options in this regard. His friend and his friend's wife are obviously delighted that they will have two lively young charges with them for the summer.

Forever, if Greg has anything to say about it.

And despite the fact that Greg Lestrade thought about telling this man, this former intelligence agent, what has occurred and begging his help … in the end, he said nothing. Just asked if his girls could come to them, per their prior invitation.

"Something's come up and it's going to require all my efforts. Can you take them for the summer?"

And of course, his friend had said "Yes. Send them on immediately!"

A quick check with his neighbor to see if she is available to chaperone the girls on the long plane trip. Available? She was thrilled. The three of them, his neighbor and his daughters, began chattering away with excitement.

Three tickets – purchased last minute, so Greg paid dearly for them and didn't count the cost. Passports. Supervise the careful packing of two bags, including Sally, Chrissie's stuffed doll. Arrange for pocket cash for the girls and traveling cash for his neighbor and the transfer of their vital records, sent along in Cassie's suitcase in a large brown envelope, tucked in at the last minute when no one was looking.

And it was done. All handled. And here it is, twenty-nine hours later, nearly to the minute. The girls are safe. And he -?

That morning, a few scant hours earlier, Greg prepared for this meeting. He reviewed his options. For a single minute, he thought about pocketing one of the good old "flash bangs." Drop the small canister and everything living within a thirty-foot radius simply loses consciousness. He would have to take the chance that he would be the first one to awaken.

But even if he can use it without being shot – and killed – sooner or later, they  _will_  get him. Or his girls.

He briefly considers bringing someone else in on his plan. The girls are safe. He owes these sons of bitches nothing. It would be the obvious thing to do. Tell Donovan or Rodriguez or Dimmock. Hell, pull in the entire damn department.

But - No. The threat was clear. His girls might be safely out of the way now but what about when they aren't? He cannot, will not, take that chance with their lives.

No. That plan won't fly. Greg opens the small ordinance box he keeps in the top of his cupboard, locked.

He has one chance. One only. And he intends to take it. And end this, once and for all. After all, he refuses to spend the rest of his career – the rest of his life and the lives of his daughters – wondering where and when the next attack is coming from.

It ends here.

Now Greg stands in the slight rain, hands in the air, fingers slightly bent, and watches as the driver kicks his mobile away, then gestures again with the handgun.

"Keep them in the air. You know what comes next."

The man moves to the side and gestures again, preparatory to searching Lestrade.

Lestrade barely restrains a smile. The man obviously cannot search him and hold the gun, too. They are clearly one man short. Bad planning, that.

The man stands to his side, then turns slightly and Greg's eyes widen as the man from the back of the car begins to walk toward them, his right arm still by his side.

Greg understands then that the driver has no intention of searching him. Frankly, they both have him in their sites. He cannot so much as twitch a fucking eyebrow without their bullets finding their way to his heart or head.

No. The driver is standing to the side because any second now, the bastard with the gun in his hand will raise it – and shoot Greg in the head. The driver doesn't want to be covered in blood and brain matter. Obvious.

Lestrade stares at the man walking toward them. It's a hard stare, born of a cold resolve. But neither the driver, who glances to his left at the gunman, nor the gunman himself, note it.

_Yes. Just a little closer, please, you utter bastard._

Finally, the gunman stops, less than a dozen feet away from Greg. The two men consider each other – the man from New Scotland Yard and the monster sent from the drug cartel.

The other man lifts his hand and Greg sees the gun for the first time. He was right, then. No need for a silencer. One pop. And it's all over.

The man gestures slightly with his weapon, and then begins to speak. Greg cannot help himself. He  _nearly_ smiles.

He's never met a criminal who fails to boast a bit, given half the chance.

And this fucking piece of shite is no exception.

"Should have left well enough alone, Lestrade. Maybe this will serve as a message."

He raises his weapon. Slowly. After all, he can afford to take his time with this bit.

And Greg Lestrade realises that all of this, making him wait the prescribed four minutes, the slow walk toward him, the gesture with the gun, the words of bravado – all of it is meant for one thing and one thing only. It's all meant to startle, to leave him rattled.

Hell, they probably expect him to beg for his life or piss his pants.

The driver takes another two steps back, his attention now entirely on the gunman.

_Even better._

"Just get on with it, you utter pile of shite," Lestrade says calmly.

The gunman's eyes widen, then narrow.

"Right," he says, the single word spit out with cold venom. The two men stare at each other.

The gunman's finger tightens on the trigger, a nearly imperceptible movement. But it's enough.

Greg tightens the fingers of his right hand. His eyes never leave the assassin's.

The Walther PPK jerks slightly in the assassin's hands. One shot, which sounds like nothing more than a child's popgun in the open air.

But at the single shot, Greg Lestrade falls, the black hole gaping round and darkly red, obscenely located directly between the dark grey brows.

The driver and gunman close in and the assassin bends over Greg's form, preparatory to searching the DI for identification, anything to prove the kill shot. Greg's hand opens, utterly slack. Something tiny and oblong and black falls from his curled fingers.

Both men see it at the same time – and their eyes widen. Too late, they scramble to their feet.

The resulting explosion is heard a quarter mile away.

Even in death, Greg Lestrade has always been a man to appreciate his options.

**OooOooO**


End file.
